by Deany Ray
“Oh, look! It’s the monkeys,” Marge cried, glancing around the corner. “Let’s go see the monkeys.”
“In a minute, Marge. Let’s stay here a little longer. Do you think pandas snore?” I slowly walked around the cage. If we were going to find a clue, this might well be the place. After all, here we were, at the crime scene, so to speak. Len didn’t move a muscle. I wondered if he ever lost his balance in his sleep and fell right off the branch.
I looked closely at the cage and the area around it. Did anything seem different? (Well, there was one missing bear.) Nothing looked out of place. I’d been here a million times.
As usual, there was a crowd milling around the cage. A child beside me hugged her mother, sobbing. “I wanted to see Lou! I wanted to show him the picture that I drew of him,” she cried. She held a crayoned drawing in her hand.
The mother gently ran her fingers through the girl’s long hair. “I’m sure that Lou’s just resting. We’ll come back next week. You can show the picture to his brother when he wakes up from his nap.”
Yes, we had to find that bear. I lowered my voice, linking elbows with my friend. “Okay. We’ll see the monkeys like you wanted. But let’s walk very slowly, and if we see a big group, let’s just kind of hang real close, see what we can hear. We are at work, you know. Hey, look. The Snack Shack looks kind of busy. We might hear something there.”
We followed some mothers with strollers to the open-air dining area filled with picnic tables. We both ordered sodas. We picked a table where we could listen in on the conversation of three employees on a break. If anyone had good info, it would be the people who were at work that morning when the panda disappeared. At least, I guessed that’s when it happened. Celeste would have to fill us in.
We didn’t learn a thing, at least not about the case. We learned that one employee’s mother had stayed out past two a.m. with her handsome (married) boss.
“Spying can be fun!” Marge squeaked. Then she frowned. “I just wish I’d heard a name to go with that last story.”
We learned that pork was on special that week at the grocer’s, and that soy sauce, sesame oil and Worcestershire made a perfect marinade. Marge grabbed her notebook and jotted down the recipe. “Oh, goodness. Yum,” she said.
We learned that dancing slowly with a baby could lull him back to sleep. “That’s one that I haven’t tried,” said another mother as she tried to soothe a wailing infant.
Marge kicked me in the ankles. “Remember that one, Charlie, if you get serious with Alex.”
I rolled my eyes. “No way is that happening.” I had a hard time getting a real, grown-up life. Making babies was not high on my to-do list right now. And with Alex? No way. It’s funny how things turn out. When I was little, I imagined I’d have a big family and a house with a big front yard by the time I was thirty. It seemed so far away. And here I was, at age twenty-nine, living with my parents and looking for escaped pandas.
Since no one seemed to be talking about the missing panda, I stood up from the table and prepared to leave. I grabbed the world’s worst matchmaker by one arm and said it was time to go. “Let’s go see your monkeys before you marry me off to some guy that I don’t even like.”
A small crowd had gathered near the exhibit that housed the lively long-armed capuchin monkeys. With their mischievous antics and almost human faces, they always drew lots of fans. A handler stood in a roped-off area where kids could shake hands with a monkey and get their pictures made. Groups could enter one family at a time.
“Oooh, let’s do it, Charlie,” Marge said. She pulled me into line.
“You notice we’re the only ones who don’t have a kid.”
She pouted. “You’re allowed to still have fun once you pass a certain age. Because that’s only fair.”
“Don’t forget,” I whispered. “We’re supposed to be keeping our ears wide open. We’re on duty here.”
The handler, a young blonde in her twenties, handed a water bottle to a small boy beside her. “Do you like to drink cold water on a hot day like today?” she asked.
The little boy nodded, looking eager. He glanced over at the monkey in the handler’s arms. The girl gave the audience a bright smile. “Well, Max likes water too.” Apparently, that was the name of the black and white monkey whose arms were draped around her neck. “Why don’t you hand the bottle to Max?” she said to the boy, then she gently put the monkey down.
Marge clasped her hands in glee, guessing what was next.
The boy gently put the bottle into Max’s hand. Then the audience clapped as the monkey unscrewed the bottle top and took a long, slow sip of water.
Families posed with the monkey. Kids held it or shook its hand, with the handler standing close by, keeping a watchful eye on the monkey’s mood.
And it was no wonder that she stayed on high alert. I loved to watch the monkeys, but they could get a little crazy. When a monkey got extra cranky, handlers had been known to end the show a little early to whisk the star attraction off to take a little break. Can you say temperamental? Hollywood stars have nothing on these little guys.
When it was our turn for the meet and greet, Marge scooped the monkey up into her arms and almost touched her nose to his. “How is the wittle monkey wonkey? Aren’t you a cutie wootie?” she sang into his ear in her high pitched squeaky voice. She rocked him back and forth in a little dance.
The monkey looked a little startled, and, really, who could blame him? That meant that he was worked up when she placed him in my arms. Whoops. I felt trouble brewing. And what was she doing anyway? I never asked to hold a monkey! What was I? Ten years old?
Maybe Max sensed I wasn’t thrilled to play a role in his little show. Or perhaps he was still freaked out by my over-excited friend, who continued to coo into his ear, sounding like a dying bird.
Whatever the reason, he grabbed my hair and yanked it hard. The crowd gasped as I begin to scream. Then, before I knew it, he was sitting on my head. But he didn’t let go of my hair. That monkey had a grip.
“Get him off me! Get him off me!” I screamed, startling the wild creature, whose attack had grown more frenzied. Why couldn’t we have gotten lucky and had this guy run away?
The handler swept the creature into her arms, along with some strands of my hair, giving him a soothing hug as she shot me the evil eye.
“I’m sorry,” she said to the crowd. “I need to take Max for a rest.”
The crowd grumbled in disappointment, and two kids began to wail. “I wanted to hold Max! That lady scared the monkey,” one girl cried out to her mother.
“It’s okay. Let’s get an ice cream,” said the tired-looking woman, sending me a glare. “Max is feeling a little sad, but he’ll feel better soon.”
“Hmm,” Marge said, smoothing down my hair. “That monkey seemed to like everyone but you.”
Great. My talent for repelling guys worked for monkeys too. I pushed my glasses up my nose and at least tried to get out of there with a little dignity. And then I noticed that some of the kids were watching me and laughing.
“Your hair,” Marge whispered who had noticed my confusion. “Hon, I hate to have to tell you, but your hair is a mess.”
I felt the top of my head. My hair, which I’d so carefully straightened that morning, was shooting out in all directions. This keeps getting better. What a lovely day at the zoo, I groaned in my head.
Suddenly, Celeste appeared amid the children, half of whom were laughing while the others sobbed.
“What’s going on?” she asked, confused. Then she looked at me and frowned. “Did you brush your hair today?”
“I did, but…oh, never mind,” I said.
Marge pouted like a child reporting to her mother. “I got to hold the monkey! For just a little while, but then it was Charlie’s turn…and Charlie hurt the monkey’s feelings.”
“Let’s just get out of here,” I said and stomped away.
I didn’t bother to explain, and Celeste somehow got the
idea that it was better not to ask.
“You two need to get your act together,” she said as we walked away. “You weren’t exactly what I’d call blending into the crowd.”
***
Back in Marge’s car, Celeste lit a cigarette and reported what she’d learned. “Apparently, some employee got really slack last night. He went in to feed the pandas and left the door wide open. Who forgets to shut the door when you work at the blooming zoo?”
Well, that’s a bad day at work, I thought. “How long was it open?”
Marge started up the car and drove us out of the parking lot, which by now had filled up a little more since some schools had let out for the day. It was not a weekend crowd, but the zoo always did a steady business.
“Nobody knows for sure how long it was before the panda saw his chance and ran.” Celeste blew a ring of smoke. “It was a few hours until closing time when another worker found the cage door open.”
“It couldn’t have been open too long,” Marge said. “Or don’t you think that Len would have made a run for freedom too?”
“Maybe not,” I said. “Those pandas love to sleep. Poor guy. I bet he’s missing his twin right now. Don’t you know that freaks the poor guy out? They’re always here together.” I gazed out the window at the clouds. “So. They have no clue where he might have run to?”
“No. They say that they’ve looked everywhere, but this is a big town. They called in extra staff and searched the premises all night and all the nearby streets. But they did it very quietly in the hours before they closed. They didn’t want the guests to know that anything was wrong.”
“Too bad it happened on a Sunday,” I said. “It probably made it harder that there was a weekend crowd.” You’d think someone would have noticed him: a small red bear with a big striped tail hanging around the ticket office, near the snake exhibit, under a table at the Snack Shack or scarfing up some chips. That would have certainly made for a day to remember at the zoo.
“So. I got some information.” Celeste held her cigarette out the window to let some of the smoke escape. “A tiny little crash course on red pandas and their habits.”
“Oooh,” Marge said, starting to speed up. “This is so much fun.”
Celeste frowned. “No, Marge, it’s far from fun. It’s an animal on the loose. He could be hurt or causing havoc. Who knows what could happen.”
“You’re right. But still…” Marge said, slowing down a little. “What did you find out?”
“Okay, Wonder Girls, here a description of our subject.” Celeste reached into her blue expensive leather bag. She fished out a notebook, which she opened to read. “It seems that our missing person has distinct white marks on his face. And they gave me pictures. I’m not one for animals, but I have to say: he is quite a cutie.” She looked back at the notebook. “He’s twenty-two inches long, and his tail’s almost as long as the rest of his whole body. Pandas mostly eat bamboo, but also fruits and insects when the weather’s warm like this.”
“Insects. That’s disgusting.” Marge scrunched her whole face into a frown. “Why in the world would they do that?”
“Marge! Because they’re bears!” I said.
“They are more active when it gets dark.” Celeste continued to read out loud from her notes.
“It’s like they’re party people!” Marge squeaked. “Lou knows that life’s more fun when the sun goes down.” She turned around to wink at us. “And do you know what? He’s right.”
Celeste let loose her honking laugh. “The best kind of misbehavior is what happens after dark. Lou’s my kind of guy.”
“What else do we know about him?” I asked. “Anything at all that might be a clue about where we should look first?”
“Well, keep your eyes focused up above you. Our boy’s favorite place to hang is high up in the treetops.”
“Noted,” said Marge.
“Cool,” I said.
“And here’s something interesting,” Celeste said, flipping to a new page. “Animals in captivity sometimes take on habits that are different from the norm for the species that’s in question.”
“So, he’s a one-of-a-kind little panda boy,” Marge said. “That’s good. Who wants to go searching anyway for some old boring panda?”
Celeste smiled. “This panda likes to eat pickles. Lots and lots of pickles.”
“I can relate,” Marge said. “I myself have been known to enjoy a pickle, especially on a burger.”
“We don’t need to know your dietary habits. Because you’re not missing, Marge.” Celeste lifted the cigarette to her mouth again.
I leaned back in my seat. “Weird. How did they find out about the pickles?”
“Somehow, Lou got hold of a pickle that some visitor dropped inside the cage. And they said he just went crazy. That’s when the zookeepers got together and decided: if something that simple can make a little panda’s day, why not give him more? They have two vet on staffs. They said it wouldn’t hurt him.”
“Does Len like pickles too?” I asked.
Celeste shook her head. “Len’s a hot dog fan.”
“I have an idea,” Marge said as we pulled onto the street that led to our new office. “Let’s all go home to take a break. Cookies, naps, whatever. I’ve got Criminal Minds on TiVo, and there’s a good one that’s up next. Then let’s meet at Green Acres Park at nine since our new friend Lou seems to get more active after dark.”
“That sounds good,” I said. “It will be easier to spot him if he’s on the go and not sound asleep.” But too bad it would be pitch black. “Everyone bring flashlights,” I said.
Celeste gave us a thumbs up. “Rest up, girls, and save your energy so we can find this little guy!”
Marge slammed on the brakes and brought the car to a screeching halt. “Hang on, Lou. We’re coming! And we’re bringing pickles.”
Chapter Three
I had three hours at home before I had to head back out to meet the girls. Perhaps I could use my burgeoning detective skills to avoid my crazy family. Thank goodness it was a huge house with a basement and a big back porch. Lots of places to hide out! But noises seemed to carry. My father liked to turn the volume way up when he watched his football games. My mother sang while she fixed dinner, and I’m afraid she missed more notes than she ever hit. My brother might be snoring on the couch – or staring at some computer game with irritating sound effects. Sometimes all the noises seemed to be competing to see which was the loudest.
I was not off to a good start. As soon as I walked in, I spotted my brother Brad collapsed onto the sofa. He had a dazed look in his eyes as if he’d just worked a double shift fighting fires or performing rescues on some stormy mountain top.
“Can you bring me a beer?” he called. “While you’re in the kitchen?”
“I’m not in the kitchen. I’m heading up the steps.” Make that tiptoeing up the steps. I’d been hoping he wouldn’t notice that I’d walked in the door.
“Then can you go to the kitchen? Pleeeese?” He sounded like he might be dying.
“Why would I go to the kitchen?”
“Because that’s where we keep the beer.”
“I don’t care to have a beer right now, but thank you for the offer.”
He should just come out and say it: I’m absolutely helpless, and I’d much prefer for someone else to wait on me hand and foot. Please don’t make me stand up. That’s just way too hard!
“Charlie, please!” he wailed as I got further up the steps. “My job is absolutely brutal.”
I paused. This might be entertaining. “What about your job is brutal, Brad? Did you get a paper cut? Pick up a stack of letters that was way too heavy? Did someone forget to add a stamp? Do you need a back rub with that beer?”
He sat up and stared down at the floor. “It’s just so absolutely boring. And they make me hand off the stacks of mail so fast that there’s no time to even pee. Or to visit with that redhead who’s so hot at the Mexican restaurant down the s
treet.” He grinned. “I think she likes me, Charlie.”
What was she, crazy? On second thought, I doubted that she even knew my brother’s name. Of course, I didn’t tell him that. Let him have his fantasies amid the piles of other people’s bills and all the slick ads for insurance and window repairs that must cross his desk.
I sighed. All of a sudden, I felt really tired. The events of the day seemed to hit me all at once. I’d set up a new office, taken a harrowing ride with Marge, had a huge fight with a monkey, and been jeered at by a crowd. I sunk down on the steps. “Hey Brad, will you get me a beer?”
“Sure.” He shrugged, stood up, went into the kitchen and came back with two cold ones. Wow, so he can move.
“Thanks. That was really nice.” I joined him on the couch.
“How was your first day?” he asked, then leaned back with his beer.
What would someone say to that – if they’d really spent their day coaxing malfunctioning computers to act the way they should? What would such a person even do once they got to work and opened a laptop that needed…whatever laptops need when they cease to work? Even my own computer sometimes left me stumped, when I tried to do the simplest things.
“It was non-stop busy,” I said. “Such a crazy day. We…interfaced a lot and…then we did…rebooting…” I paused to think. “And then we…did some things with some worrisome, very problematic…very sensitive…pixels.” At least, I thought that was a word. “And we fixed some technical kind of…doodads.” That was all I had. I couldn’t remember any other words that sounded vaguely technical.
“Awesome, man.” He nodded.
“Are Mom and Dad at home?”
“Dad’s still at work, I guess,” he said, tipping back his beer. My father often worked late at his restaurant, where the meatloaf and mile-high burgers were the stuff of epicurean dreams, and where people loved to gather to talk about town gossip. My dad had owned Jack’s Diner since I was a little girl.